New Year’s Morning 2006
The Saharan stars are obscenely bright. They seem to peel open the lids of my eyes, and tear my brain from fitful slumber. Then again perhaps it’s the hard lumps of mattress contorting my spine. Or the creeping and buzzing of the various Nilotic pests sharing my mattress. The tingling, tickle of their wings, legs, proboscises forces a shudder. (Malaria!?) Maybe the chilly breeze floating through the courtyard is to blame for the insomnia and the tremble. No. The coffee is the culprit. Three tiny cups; each of enamel melting strength. In a lapse of judgment I even downed the grainy residue that coated the bottom of the cup. This deliciously bitter film is composed of tiny bits of Arabica that escaped capture by the camel hair tuft in the spout meant to filter them. Really though it’s the excitement. A new year. A new country. Whispering “happy new years” to all the slumbering Sudanis, I close my eyes again.
Minutes later my open again. My kidneys. They want revenge for submitting them to so much caffeine. My bladder won’t wait ‘til morning. Sliding my sandaled feet through the packed dirt of the courtyard, I creep to the metal gate. While opening the door screeches in protest, as hinges seem only to do in the dead of night. I step into the street. A haze of jet lag, caffeine, and drowsiness suddenly clouds my mind. The scorching light of day left the dusty wall lined street bright, inviting. In the darkness the alley has menacingly narrowed. The gray sand blasted brick walls loom and the large metal doors seem strangely foreboding. It’s a Monty Hall nightmare. Behind one of these doors lies the squatty potty I used earlier. Little more than a small, smelly room with a hole in the floor through which strange smells of ammonia and digested fava beans emanate I long to find it again. Pick the wrong door and who knows where I might trespass. Janjaweed militants? Bashir himself? There is only one proper decision. To pee in the streets.
The decision is made, but still fear grips me. There is a flash of spending the last few years of my teens in a Sudanese prison, for public urination. Public urination! Sudanese prison! Shaking, I look about. The streets are silent, dark. A strange sensation of being completely alone, dwarfed by the immensity of the desert and the sky washes over me. The stars are so bright. Obscenely bright. The street is so dark, threateningly dark. The desert swallows all the sound. Even the shadows refuse to dance. I really am alone.
Calmed, I begin to relieve myself. Suddenly fear grips me. In the shadows a woman in hijab quietly stands. Not in the traditional brightly colored tob of the women of Sudan, but a black, shapeless burqa. My mind screams. It is too late to stop midstream. My eyes stay fixed on the wall, yet her shadow looms in my periphery. One deep breath. One long blink. The woman fades. A stack of tires inhabits her space. I really am alone. Anxiety fades. The world calms. The desert swallows the sound of my footsteps. I return to my lumpy bug ridden mattress. I lie on my back. Snores drone from the bed beside me. The mosquitoes buzz returns. This time sound swallows the desert. It’s no longer quiet. I’m no longer alone. Eyes peeled I wait for morning. Staring up at the obscenity of the stars.
Topsail Island, NC
Summer, 2010
It’s not sunny. All the other clichés for a story about the beach are there: crashing waves, sandy beach, pelicans and gulls, salty air, but no sun. I can’t complain though. On the north and south ends of the island thunderheads loom, but above our little section of beach the sky is a much lighter hue. The occasional drizzle isn’t enough to force us from the sand, though far off lightning strikes at the waves. Picking my book* up again, I realize two facts. First for the first time since I was eighteen I have spent an entire year in the country. Secondly the memories of the trips I have taken are becoming jumbled, less clear. Some memories seem to have been romanticized, gilded by nostalgia. Others dulled, stifled by the reality of the present. This is a belated attempt to capture some of the of my favorite travel memories from the past few years. A travelogue, written well after the fact, of my time in Kenya, Palestine, Sudan, Nova Scotia and just around. Hopefully, soon, there will be new travels to record here too.
* Robert Young Pelton’s The Adventurist
It’s not sunny. All the other clichés for a story about the beach are there: crashing waves, sandy beach, pelicans and gulls, salty air, but no sun. I can’t complain though. On the north and south ends of the island thunderheads loom, but above our little section of beach the sky is a much lighter hue. The occasional drizzle isn’t enough to force us from the sand, though far off lightning strikes at the waves. Picking my book* up again, I realize two facts. First for the first time since I was eighteen I have spent an entire year in the country. Secondly the memories of the trips I have taken are becoming jumbled, less clear. Some memories seem to have been romanticized, gilded by nostalgia. Others dulled, stifled by the reality of the present. This is a belated attempt to capture some of the of my favorite travel memories from the past few years. A travelogue, written well after the fact, of my time in Kenya, Palestine, Sudan, Nova Scotia and just around. Hopefully, soon, there will be new travels to record here too.
* Robert Young Pelton’s The Adventurist
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